Trish Doller

writes books for young adults

(photos by me)

bio

Bookseller by day. Writer by night. I'm kind of like Bruce Wayne. Only not rich. Or a dude. Or a superhero. Come to think of it, I'm not much like Bruce Wayne at all. I've worked as a newspaper reporter and a radio personality, but I gave all that up to sit on the couch in my pajamas and talk to imaginary people.I am a member of The Apocalypsies--a group of writers whose young adult, middle grade, and picture books will debut in 2012. Read 'em before it's too late! I live in Florida with my two dogs, two mostly grown kids, and a pirate. For real.
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something like normal

war is only half the battle...A powerful debut novel about a young Marine's return home from Afghanistan and the new life and love he finds while fending off the ghosts of war. When Travis Stephenson returns home from Afghanistan, his parents are on the brink of divorce, his brother has stolen his girlfriend and his car, and nightmares of his best friend getting killed keep him completely spooked. But when he runs into Harper Gray, a girl who despises him for trashing her reputation with a middle school lie, life actually starts looking up. As Travis and Harper see more of each other, he starts falling for her and a way through the family meltdown, the post-traumatic stress, and the possibility of an interesting future begins to emerge. His sense of humor, sense of his own strength, and incredible sense of honor make Travis an irresistible and eminently lovable hero in this fantastic and timely debut novel.June 19, 2012 (BLOOMSBURY)What people are saying..."Unflinching, but relatable, Trish Dollers SOMETHING LIKE NORMAL is everything I love in a contemporary novelfresh characters, hard edges, and a tender love story to balance it all out."-- Suzanne Young, author of A NEED SO BEAUTIFUL and A WANT SO WICKED"Unflinchingly beautiful in that raw special way. Best contemporary novel I've read in a long long time."-- Carla, The Crooked Shelf

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playlist

1. Bad Company - Five Finger Death Punch2. Brothers - Jimmy Stare3. Final Transmission - Street Dogs4. If I Ever Leave This World Alive - Flogging Molly5. Santa Monica - Jay Malinowski/Bedouin Soundclash6. 4th of July - Chris Murray7. Lay Me Down - Dirty Heads8. Savior - Rise Against9. Bullet - Mat Kearney10. Like a Soldier - Johnny Cash11. This is Letting Go - Rise AgainstBonus Track: Smile - Uncle Kracker*Listen on iTunes.Listen on Spotify.* Travis would never like this song, but it's pretty much perfect
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12.5.11 - My ARCs are here! But here's the thing...I received only a handful and they are committed. So if you want to request an ARC, see my contact page. Also, SLN will be on NetGalley in the future, so sit tight, okay?11.30.11 - How exciting to wake up to a bunch of WAITING ON WEDNESDAY posts featuring SLN! You can check them out at Overflowing Shelf, GReads, Safari Poet, We Fancy Books, YA Bliss, Gone with the Words, Narratively Speaking, and Holes in my Brain. Thank you to all of those awesome bloggers for making my day!11.25.11 - Black Friday is TRAVIS FRIDAY with the official cover reveal, exploding lady parts (you REALLY need to read that), and a very cool mention at Hypable! 11.22.11 - What Would Kirsty Eagar Do? I ponder the question during AUSSIE YA MONTH at The Crooked Shelf.11.11.11 - SOMETHING LIKE NORMAL is available for pre-order at B&N, Amazon, Books-a-Million, Powells, IndieBound, Book Depository, and Fishpond World.9.25.11 - Thanks to your comments, Kari and I managed to raise $80 for Wounded Warriors!9.18.11 - Interview with Kari at A Good Addiction on Something Like Normal, where we're raising money for Wounded Warriors and giving away Travis quote cards.9.14.11 - Is Travis one of the hottest guys in YA? Carla at Interrobang YA seems to think so! 8.23.11 - My August piece for YA Outside the Lines about beginnings and endings.7.27.11 - Copyedits...DONE.7.23.11 - My July piece for YA Outside the Lines about copyedits.7.22.11 - Copyedits!7.6.11 - Official new title: SOMETHING LIKE NORMAL6.23.11 - My June piece for YA Outside the Lines about finding the right starting point.6.1.11 - Final revisions...DONE. (Next, copyedits.)5.23.11 - My May piece for YA Outside the Lines about a spectacular day of writing...or not writing.5.6.11 - Second round revisions...DONE.4.23.11 - My April piece for YA Outside the Lines about taking your writing to the next level.3.24.11 - Ironically, just after I wrote my piece about not writing, I received my next round of revisions.3.23.11- My March piece for YA Outside the Lines about not writing.3.7.11 - First round revisions...DONE.2.23.11 - My February piece for YA Outside the Lines about the inspiration for THE NEW NORMAL.1.23.11 - My January piece for YA Outside the Lines about sex, profanity, and all those things that get books banned.1.19.11 - My editorial letter and revision notes are here. Now the real work begins.12.23.10 - My December piece for YA Outside the Lines about rules and exceptions.12.13.10 - Hit SEND on the completed manuscript of THE NEW NORMAL. Now starts the waiting game until I hear from my editor with revision notes.12.4.10 - Joined The Apocalypsies, a group of YA, MG, and picture book authors whose debuts will be released on 2012.11.23.10 - My November piece for YA Outside the Lines on finding my distinct YA voice.11.1.10 - Joined YA Outside the Lines, a group blog of YA authors who push the boundaries and write from the heart.9.26.10 - Interview at Musings of a Writer-in-Progress (on The New Normal)9.13.10 - Trish Doller's THE NEW NORMAL, about a young Marine home from Afghanistan, dealing with PTSD and trying to find his place in a life that no longer fits, to Michelle Nagler at Bloomsbury, at auction, in a nice deal, by Kate Schafer Testerman at kt literary (World English). (via Publishers Marketplace)3.30.10 - Interview with Tiffany Schmidt (on perseverance)3.24.10 - Interview at Presenting Lenore (on military research)3.17.10 - Guest blog for Suzanne Young (on kisses)3.1.10 - Guest blog at KT Literary(on second attempts)10.28.09 - Guest blog at Persnickety Snark (on Friday Night Lights)10.21.09 - My fall playlist pick at Dissecting Perfection10.8.09 - Interview at Steph Bowe's Hey! Teenager of the Year (on the book that wasn't)6.8.09 - My summer playlist pick at Dissecting Perfection2.19.09 - Interview at Juvenescence (on the book that wasn't)
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extras

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top guys of ya:1. Ryan (Raw Blue)2. Jonah (Jellicoe Road)3. Brigan (Fire)4. Stoyan (Cybele's Secret)5. Dave (A Little Wanting Song)6. Eli (Along for the Ride)7. Connor (Not That Kind of Girl)8. Greg (Stealing Heaven) 9. Po (Graceling)10. Wes (The Truth About Forever)Honorable Mention: Rob (The Sky Always Hears Me: And the Hills Don't Mind), Nick (The Demon's Lexicon), Dexter (This Lullaby) and Perry (Under the Never Sky)(as of 11/11/11)
my must-read list:Adios, Nirvana by Conrad WesselhoeftA Little Wanting Song by Cath CrowleyAmplified by Tara Kelly A Need So Beautiful by Suzanne Young Anna and the French Kiss by Stephanie Perkins Birthmarked by Caragh O'Brien Blood Red Road by Moira Young Brooklyn, Burning by Steve Brezenoff Catching Jordan by Miranda KenneallyDirty Little Secrets by C.J. Omololu Fall For Anything by Courtney Summers Flash Burnout by L.K. Madigan Freak Magnet by Andrew Auseon Freefall by Mindi Scott Grace by Elizabeth Scott Guardian of the Dead by Karen Healey Guy Langman, Crime Scene Procrastinator by Josh Berk Imaginary Girls by Nova Ren Suma Nothing Like You by Lauren StrasnickOrdinary Beauty by Laura Weiss Please Ignore Vera Dietz by A.S. KingRaw Blue by Kirsty Eagar The Ruby Oliver series by E. LockhartSoft Spots: A Marine's Memoir of Combat and Post Traumatic Stress Disorder by Clint Van Winkle The Absolute Value of |-1| by Steve Brezenoff The Beginner's Guide to Living by Lia HillsThe Chaos Walking trilogy by Patrick NessThe Dark Days of Hamburger Halpin by Josh BerkThe Deathday Letter by Shaun Hutchinson The Demon's Lexicon trilogy by Sarah Reese BrennanThe Extraordinary Secrets of April, May & June by Robin Benway The Forest of Hands & Teeth trilogy by Carrie RyanThe Naughty List by Suzanne Young The Piper's Son by Melina Marchetta The Poison Diaries series by Maryrose WoodThe Red Umbrella by Christina Gonzalez The Sky Always Hears Me: And the Hills Don't Mind by Kirstin Cronn-MillsThe Sky is Everywhere by Jandy Nelson The Things a Brother Knows by Dana ReinhardtUnder the Never Sky by Veronica RossiWanderlove by Kirsten Hubbard War by Sebastian Junger What We Keep is Not Always What Will Stay by Amanda Cockrell
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excerpt

Chapter 1At the end of the concourse I can see a few kids from the high school marching band playing the Marines Hymn and a couple old guys--their blues straining at the waist--acting as an unofficial color guard. Jesus Christ, please tell me my mom didn't hire a band. Mom's arms are stretched wide, holding a sign painted in cheerleader-bright colors that says Welcome Home, Travis! Tied around her wrist are the strings to a metric shit-ton of helium balloons. It's bad enough I have to come back to Fort Myers. This is worse. I can't pretend this whacked-out welcome wagon is for anyone else. I was the only Marine on the flight.The sign crackles, crushed between us as my mom flings her arms up around my neck, standing on tiptoe to reach. Balloons drift down and bump softly against the top of my head. There is a year-and-a-half's worth of hugging in this one embrace, and I get the feeling that if it was an option, she'd never let me go again."Thank God you're home," she whispers against my chest, her voice breaking with tears. "Thank God you're alive."I feel like shit. Partly because I don't know what to say, but mostly because I'm alive. "It's good--" The lie sticks in my throat and I have to start again. "It's good to be here."She hugs me too long and strangers walking past touch my back and arms as they say thank you and welcome home, and it pushes me beyond uncomfortable. Common sense tells me these people in their Ohio State t-shirts and New York Yankees ball caps are just tourists. Regular people. But I've spent the past seven months living in a country where the enemy blends in with the local population, so you're never sure who you can trust. My position is vulnerable and I hate that I don't have a rifle."I need to get my bag," I say, and I'm relieved when my mom lets go. She thanks the color guard, hugs a couple of the band girls, and then we head for the escalator to the baggage claim."How was the flight? Did they give you anything to eat? Are you hungry? Because we could stop somewhere for lunch if you're hungry." She talks fast and too much, trying to fill up the silence between us. A metallic female voice tells us the local time and weather so tourists can reset themselves. My watch is still set to Afghanistan time, even though I've been in the States for a couple of weeks. I forgot, I guess. "Clancy's was always your favorite," Mom says. "You used to love their shepherds pie, remember?"Anger ignites in my chest and I want to snap at her. Clancy's is still my favorite restaurant and I haven't forgotten I love shepherd's pie. Except her intentions are good and I don't want to be disrespectful, so I offer her a half-smile. "I remember, but I'm not especially hungry," I say. "I'm tired.""Your dad wanted to be here to meet you today, but he had an important meeting," Mom continues, in a tone that makes me wonder if she believes what she's saying. Maybe she's talking about someone else's dad. "And Ryan has been working at the Volkswagen dealership until he leaves for college."After his professional football career ended, my dad bought three car dealerships. When I was in high school, I'd have worked at the VW dealership for free, just to have access to the shop and the parts for my car. But since I was his disappointment son, he refused and I ended up working on a landscaping crew for eight bucks an hour. Figures Dad would give Ryan a real job."And Paige..." Mom's lips pinch into a disapproving grown as she trails off. My mother has never liked my girlfriend--correction, my ex-girlfriend. My mom thinks she looks cheap. I think Paige belongs on the cover of Maxim in nothing but her underwear, which is exactly why I was attracted to her in the first place. Stowed in the bottom of my seabag is the one and only letter she ever sent me. It came in a care package with cigarettes, dip, coffee, and porn. Only Paige would soften the blow of a Dear John letter by sending it with the stuff deployed Marines want most.It wasnt a long letter:Trav,I thought you should know before you come home that I'm with Ryan now.~PI wasn't surprised she broke it off clean like that. Paige has never been one for diplomacy. She usually says what's on her mind, even when it's hurtful or bitchy. Another thing I've always appreciated about her. Well, that...and the sex. Especially after we'd been fighting, which we did often. I still have a faint scar on my cheek from where she threw a beer bottle at me after she caught me making out with some random girl at some random party. We cheated on each other all the time. That's the way it was with me and Paige--insane and toxic, but always fucking awesome.When I enlisted I didn't pretend she'd sit at home waiting for me. I didn't tape her picture inside my helmet the way some of my buddies did with pictures of their wives and girlfriends. I always knew she'd hook up with someone else. The only surprising part was that the someone else was my brother.The thing is? I don't really care.I mean, yeah, I might be a little curious about why Paige would be interested in Ryan. He doesn't seem to be her type, which makes me wonder if she's playing some sort of mind game with me--or him. I have no interest in being played and I'm only in town for thirty days. Ryan can have her.I didn't even want to come to Fort Myers, but I didn't have anywhere else to go. I'd rather be with my friends. I want to be with the people who know me best. I want to go home.As soon as the thought crystalizes in my mind, I feel bad again. Especially with my mom standing beside me at the baggage carousel, wearing the biggest smile in the history of smiles and rattling on about how happy she is I made it home before Ryan leaves for college. To keep from sniping a smart ass comment about my level of give-a-shitness, I look around the room at the hugging families and businessmen with laptop bags slung over their shoulders. Beyond a cluster of people waiting for their luggage, I see a dark-haired guy wearing desert camouflage leaning against a support column. It looks like my buddy, Charlie Sweeney. We've been friends since boot camp and were sent to Afghanistan in the same platoon. "Charlie?" I take a step toward him and this weird sort of happiness fizzes up inside me like a soda bottle, because if my best friend is here in Florida, it means he's not--"Travis?" my mom says. "Who are you talking to?"--dead. My stomach churns and my eyes go hot with tears that never seem to come. Charlie can't possibly be in Fort Myers because he was killed in Afghanistan and I'm standing in the middle of a crowded baggage claim talking out loud--to an empty space. And all that happy just leaks right out, leaving me empty again."Are you all right?" Mom touches my sleeve.I blow out a breath and lie. "Yeah, I'm fine.""I can't get over how you've changed," Mom says, hugging me again. I've always been tall, but I've grown two inches in the past year. Also, I used to have hair that hung nearly to my shoulders that Mom was always nagging me to cut. "You look so handsome."The black-flapped opening spits my bag onto the conveyor and I'm relieved to walk away from this conversation. I grab it with one hand and hoist it onto my shoulder, sending little puffs of dust into the air around me. Afghanistan has followed me home."Welcome home, Marine." An old man approaches me, his sleeve pushed up to display the Marine Corps EGA--eagle, globe, and anchor--tattooed on his upper arm. Showing me he belongs to the brotherhood. "Semper Fi.""Always, sir." I shake his hand.He pats my elbow and lets me go. "God bless you, kid."Mom chatters endlessly on the drive, mostly about school. She's the secretary at my former high school, so she thinks she knows all the gossip. I don't care who's dating who, or which teachers won't be hired back next year, or that the soccer team had a losing season, but letting her talk means I don't have to. The house looks exactly the same as it did when I left, including Mom's ceramic frog next to the front steps. She keeps a spare key hidden underneath in case we get locked out. All my friends know the key is there, but Paige is the only one who's ever used it. She would drive over in the middle of the night and sneak up to my room. I wonder if she does that with Ryan now.My mom leads me through the house to my bedroom, as if I don't remember the way. She opens the door and--like the rest of the house--it looks like it was frozen in time. Gray paint? Check. Color-coordinated comforter? Check. Concert flyers taped randomly to the walls to disguise the decorator paint job? Check. Curled up photo of Paige and me at my senior prom stuck in the corner of the mirror? Check. Even the book on the bedside table is the same one I was reading before I left. The whole thing is...creepy."I left everything the way it was," she says, as I drop my bag on the floor. "So it would feel familiar. Like home."I don't tell her it doesn't feel like home at all. I pull the photo from the mirror, crush it in my fist, and lob it at the trashcan."Why don't you rest?" Mom suggests. "Take a nap. I'll come get you when Dad and Rye are home."When she's gone, I dive onto the bed. It's the one thing I'm very happy about. The mattress is soft and the comforter is clean, luxuries I've lived without since I left for boot camp. I stretch out on my back, my boots hanging off the bottom edge of the bed and close my eyes. I can't get comfortable. I roll over onto my side and try again. Then my stomach. Pry off my boots with my toes. Finally, I grab my pillow and hit the floor, dragging the comforter with me. I've slept on the top bunk of a squeaky metal rack in the squad bay at Parris Island, on a cot at Camp Bastion while we waited to start our mission, and in February the temperature dropped so low one night I had to share a sleeping bag with Charlie. All things considered, the thick carpet is comfortable and I fall asleep fast.I'm walking down a road in Marjah. It's a road we've walked often on patrol. I'm on point with Charlie and Moss behind me. It's cold, clear, and quiet, except for the crunch of our boots and the sound of prayer we hear every morning. The street will come alive soon with people going to the mosque, washing up in the canal, or going to work in their fields. Right now, though, the street is empty. The hair on the back of my neck prickles and I know something is going to go down. I stop and try to warn Moss and Charlie, but no sound comes out of my mouth. I try to signal with my hands, but I can't lift them. I want to run back to stop them, but my legs won't move no matter how hard I try. I watch, helpless, as Charlie steps on the pressure plate. Boom! He's enveloped in a cloud of dust. The bomb, hidden in the base of a tree, sprays him with shrapnel. Charlie falls to the dirt road, motionless. My limbs unfreeze and I walk slowly toward his body until I'm standing over him. The world shifts and I'm on my back, pain radiating through my body, as if I stepped on the mine, not Charlie. I open my eyes and there's a face above me. An Afghan boy I've seen before who smiles as he fades away.I shoot upright on the floor, my eyes open and my body on alert, but my brain is still in the hazy space between nightmare and awake. My mother is shaking me. My hands curl around her wrists, squeezing until she cries out in pain. "Travis, stop!"I let go immediately and just sit there, blinking, my heart rate going crazy. I'm shaking a little. Mom smoothes her hand across my forehead the way she did when I was small and had a fever. "It's only a dream. Let it go. It's not real."I'm fully awake now and I know she's right. It's not real. This nightmare is a patchwork of my worst fears. But my imagination wraps itself in this quilt of horror whenever I sleep. I haven't averaged more than a couple hours a night for weeks.As my heart rate drops back to normal, I watch her rub her wrists. I could have broken them. "I'm sorry I hurt you," I say. "I didn't mean to do that.""It's okay." She looks at me sadly. "I wish I could erase whatever troubles your dreams."Except the past can't be rewound and this is the life I chose.
#I didn't have a noble purpose in joining the Marines. I didn't do it to protect American freedom and I wasn't inspired to action by the 9/11 terrorist attacks. I was in grade school then and the biggest priority in my life was any bell that signaled it was time to leave school. I enlisted mostly because I wanted to escape my dad, who'd made my life hell since I quit the football team at the end of sophomore season.I hated football. Not because I wasn't good at it or because it wasn't fun, but because I hated the way it took over my life. Dad signed me up for Pop Warner Tiny Mites when I was five. So while other kids were learning to ride two-wheelers, I was practicing my receiving. It was fun when I was little--the game was still a game--but as I got older, I hated the pressure. I hated that run-through-a-woodchipper feeling I got after he'd critique my game films. But what I hated most was that in practically every reference to me--in newspapers, game commentary, post-game TV recaps on the local news--was a reference to him. I was never just Travis Stephenson. I was son of former Green Bay Packer, Dean Stephenson. Sophomore year he started talking about scouts and college ball, and all I could think about was how I was going to be stuck living my dad's dream. So when the season ended, I quit. He went ballistic, and I became a nonentity.The day I turned eighteen--three days after I graduated high school--I went to the Marine recruiters office and signed up. More or less. The process is more involved than simply signing your life over to the Marine Corps, but the result is the same: four years active duty, the next four years in ready reserve. It might not make sense to want to go from a lifetime of coaches yelling in my face to a drill instructor yelling in my face, but I figured it couldn't be that much different. Except that at boot camp I wouldnt be son of former Green Bay Packer, Dean Stephenson. I'd just be me.Mom cried when I told her because, in her mind, enlistment meant certain death in a foreign country. She begged me to enroll at Edison State instead. "I know you didnt get the best grades," she said. "But you can take the basics until you decide on a major. Please, Travis, dont do this."My dad just looked at me for a long time, his mouth a tight slash across his face. It was a familiar expression. One reserved for me. In his world, where winning is everything, he had no use for the kid who refused to play the game. If I had picked up another sport, he might have forgiven me. But I didn't and neither did he.His laugh was whip-crack sharp. "Remember the motorcycle you were going to rebuild? Or the band you and your friends were going to start? Or, wait--how about the promising football career you threw away like it was garbage instead of your God-given gift? How long, Travis, do you think you'll last at boot camp before you want to quit that, too? You don't have the discipline it takes to be a Marine."As if he knew any more about being in the military than I did.Three weeks later, I shipped and didn't come back. Until now.I can admit now it might not have been one of my smarter decisions, but I didn't want to go to college and I didn't think I was going to end up in Afghanistan right out of infantry school. I figured I'd be assigned to a base or sent off to Okinawa. Thing is, I'm a good Marine. Better than pretty much anything else I've ever done. So even though the Marine Corps has moments of extreme suck, I don't really regret my choice."Trav." Mom taps at my bathroom door as I'm doing up the last button on a blue and white striped shirt I found hanging in the closet. It's either Ryan's or something my mom bought before I left, hoping I'd wear it. The sleeves pinch at the elbows when I bend my arms, but I wore the same desert cammies for seven months. My fashion sense has atrophied. "Dinner in five minutes."I wipe the steam from the mirror. I went for so long without seeing myself that my face still kind of surprises me. I still have a hard time with mirrors because it feels like I'm looking at a stranger. Someone who is smaller than I imagined, although not small at all. And the guy in the mirror is not wearing a combat uniform or body armor. Without them, I don't feel much like myself, either.The scent of roast beef greets me in the hallway and I swear if Paige was standing naked in front of me, begging to get back together, I'd pass her by to get to the table. The closest we came to a home-cooked meal in-country was the time some of the Afghan National Army soldiers roasted a whole goat, which we ate with a local rice dish and Afghan bread. We had chicken from the village bazaar a couple of times, too, but mostly we ate MREs. Which is short for Meal, Ready-to-Eat. Or, as we usually called it, Meal, Rarely Edible."Travis." My dad gets up from the head of the table as I enter the dining room and shakes my hand, as if I'm a business associate. Or a stranger he hopes will buy a car. Hes still wearing a suit, his yellow tie slack at the neck. "Welcome home, son.""Yeah, thanks."Mom prods Ryan, who is sitting across from me, texting someone on his cell phone. We're barely a year apart, but he looks so young."Hey, Trav." He smiles at the screen, then gives me a weak-ass chin lift. "Welcome back."Jesus, this is awkward.My family has never been especially good at warm and fuzzy. My mom's thing was always ferrying us to practices, supplying juice boxes at halftime, and sitting in the stands at every game. Even rainy days she'd be there, huddled under her green and white umbrella. Dad's displays of affection came after a win, accompanied by a manly pat on the shoulder and an I'm proud of you, son. It's been a long time since I got one of those. And Ryan...when I was seven and he was six, our grandpa gave me a Korean war G.I. Joe for my birthday. It was meant to be a collectors item, but Pops said I should play with it, enjoy it. Sometimes I did, but mostly I kept it on top of my dresser because I thought it was cool. One day, Ryan took it without asking. When I complained to my dad, he told me to quit whining and let my brother play with the G.I. Joe. Ryan pulled the arm off. That pretty much sums up our relationship: I have it. He wants it. He gets it. He ruins it.Even so, shouldn't it feel good to be with them again? Why do I feel closer to a group of guys I've known less than a year than I do my own family?"Did you get all the packages I sent?" Mom asks, passing me the serving dish of mashed potatoes.After she accepted that I was going to enlist with or without her blessing, she pursued being a Marine Mom with the same enthusiasm as being a Football Mom. She registered on a bunch of Internet USMC parent websites, slapped a yellow magnetic Support Our Troops ribbon on her SUV, and went insane with care packages. Between church groups, the different any service member organizations, and parents, it wasn't unusual for a guy to get fifteen care packages at once. Getting mail was like Christmas, sitting there cross-legged on the ground opening presents. And my mom usually sent me quality stuff--instant heat packs, a coffee press and gourmet beans, and a solar shower that was stolen by one of the Afghan National Army soldiers before I even had a chance to use it."Yes, ma'am. Thank you." I was pretty terrible at keeping in touch, but in my defense we were cut off from the outside world for the first couple of months we were there. Then we got a satellite phone and were allowed to call home every couple of weeks, but only for about five minutes at a time. During one call I suggested she could probably cut back on the dental floss and paperback mysteries and send some school supplies for the kids who would mob us, begging for everything. The kids went nuts for the pens and crayons. Water. Candy. Food. Pens. I dont know why, but they loved pens. "I'm, um--sorry I didn't call much."Her eyes widen. Probably because I've never been in the habit of apologizing."Well, we figured you were probably busy," she says.In Afghanistan, that was true, but I have no excuse for boot camp or infantry school. She sent me tons of letters and I never answered any of them. I called her on the first day of boot camp and recited the words fastened to the wall beside the phone: This is recruit Stephenson. I have arrived safely at Parris Island. Please do not send any food or bulky items to me in the mail. I will contact you in three to five days by postcard with my new address. Thank you for your support. And that was about it. Aside from that handful of five-minute phone calls, I havent talked to her for more than a year."Ellen always called me after she got a letter from Charlie," Mom says. "So I knew you were okay."At boot camp we did everything in alphabetical order, so the two other recruits whose names I learned first were Lee Staples and Charlie Sweeney. One of them was always in front of me or behind me, depending on the whim of our drill instructors. Staples bugged me because he cried after we got our heads shaved. I mean, okay, I can see how it could be considered degrading because it strips away one of the things that sets you apart from everyone else, but what-the-fuck-ever. It grows back. Anyway, when they finally let us get to sleep that first day, after being awake more than 24 hours straight, Charlie and I were assigned to the same rack--Stephenson on the top bunk, Sweeney on the bottom. We were stripping down to shorts and t-shirts when Charlie said, "Hey, Stephenson, I heard if you go to the Buddhist church services on Sundays, they let you sleep." "I heard," I said. "If you claim to be Jewish, you can go to Sabbath services and still have time off on Sunday."Charlie laughed. "I like the way you think."I'm not going to tell you I knew right then we were going to be friends, but he wasn't a whiner like Staples. I don't know why it was Charlie who became my best friend. It's not one particular reason I can identify. I had his back, he had mine. Period. Somehow I guess Charlie's mom and mine became friends, too."We're so proud of you." Mom's eyes get watery and my dad nods in agreement, which makes me wonder if the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse can be far behind."So what was it like over there?" Dad's eyes glow with something I haven't seen in years. At least not while he was looking at me. "Did you kill anybody?"He's curious. Who wouldnt be? But how do I answer that question? Yes, I've killed, but its not like picking off bad guys in a video game. The first time I shot someone, I thought I was going to puke but I couldn't because we were in the middle of a firefight and I couldn't stop shooting. I won't tell my dad that. Not at dinner. Not ever."I dont really want to talk about it," I say.His pride fades as his eyes narrow. "Why? Do you think you're too good--""Travis, did I tell you?" Mom interrupts him. "There's an organization in Tampa that's been collecting school supplies for the kids--""I'm sure he doesn't want to hear about your little pet project, Linda," Dad cuts in. "I'm surprised to hear him talk this way to my mom. No matter how bad things got between him and me, he's always been good to her.""No, Dad," I say. "I dont think I'm too good to tell you about Afghanistan. I just don't want to talk about killing people at the fucking dinner table." Not waiting for his response, I turn to Mom. "And I do want to hear about your project."Her eyes flicker nervously toward my dad. He makes a wide-armed shrug and rolls his eyes. His Super Bowl ring flashes on his hand, a huge reminder that he is a Winner."I was just--" Mom stumbles over the words, the light gone from her eyes. "I was just going to say that Ive talked to them about starting a branch here in Fort Myers.""That's really cool." I smile at her. The begging kids were okay at first because they were scared of us, but after a while they were grabby and demanding. I dont tell her that, though. She seems pretty excited. "The kids go crazy for that stuff. Pens, paper, soccer balls, and those bean bag animal doll things--they lose their minds over those things.""May I be excused?" Ryan balls up his napkin and drops it on his plate. "I've got a, um..." His gaze meets mine for a split second before sliding nervously away. A date. He has a date with Paige. "I'm meeting up with some people.""Maybe Travis would like to go along," Mom suggests."I'll pass." The image of me riding shotgun with my brother and my ex-girlfriend almost makes me laugh. "I'm wiped out."Ryan shoves away from the table and the three of us spend the rest of the meal in a silence thick with things unsaid. The only sound is the clinking of silverware against the plates. I hate that a year wasn't enough separation to keep my dad from getting under my skin, and I hate that I let him make me feel fifteen all over again. When its finally over, I go to my room and lock the door.We got back to Camp Lejeune a couple of weeks ago and had to have a post-deployment health assessment to take care of any physical problems we developed in-country--primarily skin problems from washing in muddy canals, acne from having a constantly dirty face, bug bites, and a few guys had lingering coughs from chest infections. The evaluation is also supposed to gauge our mental wellness, but that's a joke. We say everything is okay because the fastest way to wreck your career is to admit it's not. So I didn't tell anyone about my recurring nightmare. I only told the doctor I was having trouble sleeping and he prescribed me some pills.They rattle as I pull the amber bottle out of my bag and dump three tablets into my hand. I swallow them dry, then ease myself to the floor and let the world fade away.

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